


Melting As We Go

by Raptor_Redemption



Series: Summer Gladnis Week 2019 [1]
Category: Final Fantasy XV
Genre: Everybody Lives, M/M, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, Outdoor Sex, Picnics, Sexual Tension, Teasing, Wedding Planning
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-08-15
Updated: 2019-08-15
Packaged: 2020-09-01 18:41:24
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,493
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20262730
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Raptor_Redemption/pseuds/Raptor_Redemption
Summary: As Noctis claims the throne and Insomnia rebuilds, Ignis finds himself in the midst of political overwork and wedding planning, to boot. Gladio, on the other hand, has different plans for their summer months.Each time Ignis pulls himself away from work, into the August heat and the arms of his fiancé, he finds himself a bit softer.





	Melting As We Go

**Author's Note:**

> I shouldn't be surprised that my first Gladnis fic got out of hand--what was supposed to be a series of drabbles for Summer Gladnis Week turned into a multi-chapter fic and likely a continuous series of sorts, too. As Prompto would say, #sorrynotsorry.
> 
> This first chapter is based on Day 2, the prompts for which were: picnic; relax in a hammock; bonfire with s'mores / adjectives: relaxed, mischievous.
> 
> Enjoy my second published FFXV fic and my first ever Gladnis! Come visit me on [Twitter](https://twitter.com/raptor_redeem), too!
> 
> (Note: This hasn't been beta'd or thoroughly edited in any way, so please forgive mistakes. I'll likely return to clean things up once Summer Gladnis Week is over!)

Gladio needed some time to convince Ignis that a Sunday afternoon away from his _multitudes _(“Absolutely too much to do; much too busy for a day away,” he said) of work would be good for him.

It started on Monday, when Ignis had sighed and proceeded to list to Gladio in excruciating detail every obligation on his and His Highness’s agenda for the following two weeks—luckily for both of them, Gladio had stopped him midway through the rant, waving his palms in front of him as if Ignis’s stacked schedule was something contagious and Gladio wanted no part of it.

“All right, Iggs, all right. I won’t keep ya, then.”

On Tuesday, Gladio perched himself on the edge of Ignis’s desk during the lunch “break” which Ignis insisted on taking in his office. They ate while a dictation program narrated through a couple of economics reports—admittedly, Ignis’s least favorite royal affair. The warm aroma of their lunches Ignis had prepared the night before at least made the atmosphere slightly more welcoming.

During a pause, Gladio spoke again. “Any way the royal agenda has miraculously lightened up enough for my baby to get a break?”

“No,” Ignis said flatly, and that was that.

Wednesday and Thursday passed much the same, Gladio’s persistence wearing thin on Ignis’s nerves but admittedly cracking his resolve all the same.

It was just something simple that Gladio wanted, a picnic and an afternoon away, spent in relative silence. Maybe a warm bath that night after spending an evening with nothing but grass and earth as their mattress, the sounds of crickets accompanied by Gladio’s soothing voice counting out the stars.

The thought of it all felt more like a dream than something they could feasibly fit into their reality at the moment.

Gladio wanted a fantasy, Ignis thought. Of course, he wished they could have the same, but it’s simply not feasible. Still, he couldn’t remember the last time the two of them had spent some quality time together, away from the bustle of royalty and responsibility and a kingdom caught in the overwhelming throes of rebuilding itself to its former majesty.

On Thursday, Ignis barely said anything at all in protest, and by Friday, Ignis succumbed with a single condition: “You _will _allow me to prepare our lunches. Little do you know that it’s less than healthy to subsist entirely on bags of teriyaki beef jerky.”

Ignis _felt _the smugness of victory when Gladio grunted his acquiescence.

By now, the smugness is far gone, replaced only with that childlike excitement that has Gladio jumping out of his own skin at the idea of spending time outdoors. Ignis can’t quite say that he understands the enthusiasm, given that it’s well past ninety degrees (_without the heat index_, Ignis thinks bitterly), but to steal away any part of Gladio’s well-earned joy would be simply cruel.

“Lady Lunafreya has offered to help with the arrangements,” he mentions, feeling the gentleness of Gladio’s palm against his elbow as he lifts himself over a tree root obstructing the dirt trail leading to their picnic spot. Ignis notes the root with ease and adjusts his steps accordingly, a wicker picnic basket swinging from his free arm. “And Iris is more than happy to handle flowers. If you can ask again about the backup venue, I’ll call the caterer for the fourth time this week and maybe he’ll answer his bloody phone—”

“Iggy.”

Ignis doesn’t stop walking, but he hums inquisitively instead of continuing on with his rant about a caterer gone rogue.

“You know, I asked you out for us to chill. Just because you’re not at the Citadel keeping His _Highness _out of trouble doesn’t mean that this is an excuse for you to stress about our wedding. It’s fine.”

“But, Gladio, I _told _you that there’s no time—”

Gladio laughs and playfully punches Ignis in the shoulder. “Nah. You gave in, remember. A day off, a picnic, and the only condition I agreed to was that I’d let you make lunch. No work talk. That means our wedding.”

“Oh, so marrying me is _work _now?”

They both laugh at that, and for a moment Ignis feels like he’s back on the road—just the prince and his retainers, passing the days and nights with clever quips and jabs that, in the end, just said, “I love you.”

For a few moments, Ignis is silent, and he wonders if he’s been absorbed with his duties and the stress of his personal life for so long that he’s forgotten how to exist without something to do.

The walk is short, only a third of a mile or so, to the meadow they used to frequent back when they were younger and more desperately in need of places to enjoy time alone. Even after all this time and a decade of darkness, the scenery has remained largely unchanged. There’s a spot of forest more barren now, blackened and lonely and lost to demon fire, and the old gravel path has been reduced to little more than a thin dirt trail. Still, it’s _theirs_, and Ignis remembers the way like the back of his hand.

Finally, he chances to ask, “Is it at least acceptable within your highly regarded Picnic Rules to _complain _about work?”

Gladio snorts. “What, you wanna give Noct what for?”

“Only a little,” Ignis smirks. “I’d do my best to make any complaints as _impartial _as possible.” He lets himself laugh, and the release of muscles pulled tight with stress is more welcome than he cares to admit.

Gradually, the crunch of loose rock and dirt beneath his feet quiets to something softer, and he feels Gladio wrap an arm around him and pull him in close.

“We made it?” Ignis asks.

“Yeah.”

“How does it…look?”

Gladio sounds pleased when he says, “Not bad, really. Not bad at all.” They’d been half-frightened that this place might have been destroyed, been adopted as a den of demons and torn to shreds like most other Insomnian treasures.

Gladio’s touch leaves Ignis, and Ignis hears the sound of nylon sliding along leather—Gladio slipping the bag from his back and preparing what, for today, will be their haven and theirs alone.

Ignis waits patiently while Gladio sets up, trekking the outskirts of the meadow and finding a stump to perch upon while he listens to Gladio work.

The shade afforded by the trees is a relief from the intense heat, but Ignis still finds himself wiping his forehead with the back of his hand. He hopes for a breeze, something to rustle the leaves and take the edge off the heat, but the hot air is largely still. Instead, he distracts himself by thinking of Gladio. He remembers fondly how Gladio would set up and break down camp each night they couldn’t find a hotel—the movements reside in Gladio’s muscle memory like walking or riding a bike, and the corner of Ignis’s lips quirks up when the sound of shuffling canvas and metal poles clicking into place slows down, then stops.

“Hey,” Gladio says, offering a hand (Ignis loves that cologne on his wrist). “May I guide my fiancé to our castle for the afternoon?” Ignis can only imagine the flourish, a mocking bow and a little wave of Gladio’s hand, but hearing the smile in his voice is enough.

He slips his hand through Gladio’s arm and squeezes the inside of his elbow. “To our dining room, please.” Ignis knows that Gladio loves it when he plays along with his jokes and, most of the time, Ignis enjoys it, too.

“I tossed a canopy up,” Gladio says as if it took no more effort than smoothing the blanket spread across the ground. “The nice one with the mosquito net and shit. I know how much they love you.”

Ignis makes a noise, and Gladio tacks on, “It’s because you’re so fuckin’ sweet.”

At that, Ignis lightly slaps Gladio’s hand. “Unhand me you flattering brute.” He attempts to keep a firmness in his tone, but his grin betrays him as he lowers himself down onto the blanket and begins the long-awaited reveal of this afternoon’s menu.

Once the mosquito netting is closed and Ignis feels Gladio’s weight beside him—and the only warmth that’s welcome this afternoon—he sets the basket in front of him and reveals its contents—a series of mason jars and glass food containers filled with enough colorful ingredients to warrant a three-course meal. This is, of course, exactly what Ignis has prepared.

He begins his presentation as if he’s describing the meal for a board of nobles or, at the very least, competitive cooking judges.

“For lunch today, I’ve prepared—”

“Oh boy,” Gladio teases. “Here we go.” Ignis ignores him.

“—a sandwich with grilled salmon, an herbed mayonnaise with basil and parsley, tomatoes, romaine, and freshly-baked seeded rolls.

“On the side, a layered cabbage salad with apple and fennel, dressed with a lemon and mustard vinaigrette, as well as a fruit salsa and lightly salted tortilla chips.” The last item in the basket is the only thing not jarred—a bag of Gladio’s favorite brand of storebought corn chips.

“What’s that?” Gladio asks. “The bundle in the corner.”

“Dessert,” Ignis says flatly, then slams the wicker basket shut. “Which you will _not _be touching until you’ve at least eaten some of your salad.”

Gladio sighs. “I’m not _Noct_, you know. I’ll eat my veggies.”

“Will you?” Ignis raises an eyebrow, teasing, but he knows that Gladio will eat just about anything Ignis puts in front of him. He’s good like that.

Carefully, Ignis plates everything himself, and it’s as beautiful as it always is when he sets Gladio’s meal before him with a gentle eagerness. There’s nothing better than cooking for his loved ones, Ignis thinks. It’s always been this way. It’s what he loves, it’s what feels _right_—the same way it felt right when Gladio slipped a sleek engagement ring on him half a year before.

Everything before him, Gladio lets out a low whistle to accompany the reverent, “Damn, Iggy.”

It’s the best compliment Ignis could ask for.

They raise their jars of sangria and toast, silently dedicating the afternoon to themselves, to their love for one another, to whichever of the Six has the most control over the events of their wedding. There’s no need to say anything aloud. Ignis has enough performative theatrics at the Citadel each day.

This afternoon is one for silence, for touch and quiet appreciation.

Ignis is mostly pleased with the results of his efforts the night before. As usual, he recognizes a handful of improvements he could make and quietly dictates them into his phone for the next time.

On his third glass of sangria, Gladio hums like he’s deciding whether or not he should keep his words to himself. Ignis mentally prepares himself.

“So, like, what happens if I _don’t _eat my vegetables?”

Usually, Ignis can tell when Gladio is joking, but for whatever reason, he panics. “What, is it bad? You don’t like it? I wasn’t sure about the mustard, but I thought it tasted—”

The rough pad of Gladio’s forefinger lands gently on Ignis’s lips, silencing him. “Nah,” Gladio says. “It’s amazing. Was just teasing.”

Ignis immediately feels silly. “Of course,” he says, and his face feels hot in a way that’s different than the steady, humid heat. He understands now what Gladio was thinking, probably what he wants to do.

“Well.” He straightens, finishes his own sangria, holds the smaller mason jar he’s using as a cup out for more, and says, “I wouldn’t risk it, but I suppose you’ll have to choose between dessert or another punishment entirely.” Ignis adores using his desserts against Gladio, because he knows they’re bloody delicious and his fiancé would never turn one down. “So,” Ignis shrugs. “That’s a decision a big boy like you can make on his own.”

Gladio snorts at that, a retort which means the game has begun.

Gladio’s mischief lies heavy in the air, electrifying the air and keeping the unspoken tension just as taut as they like it.

The food is gone, eventually, save for the majority of Gladio’s cabbage and fennel salad. He makes a show of scooping the remainder back into one of Ignis’s mason jars, politely packing his leftovers but clanging the fork against the lid so Ignis knows exactly what he’s doing.

“Such a little _delinquent,_ aren’t you?” Ignis sneers. He, in turn, unwraps the dessert from its cloth with flourish. Without a plate, with nothing more than a fork and a wicked grin, Ignis digs into the full loaf of pound cake to fork away a chunky bite. The nicely browned exterior gives way to something golden and moist, and Ignis lifts the bite to his lips with a cupped hand beneath to catch crumbs.

Normally, the service of dessert is entirely about presentation, but Gladio has turned this into _war_.

“Oh, _Gladio_,” Ignis says, mouth full as he forces his expression to melt into something like pure bliss. “Oh, darling, it’s positively _orgasmic_.” Miraculously, he keeps himself from laughing—his expression doesn’t even crack. “Maybe the best pound cake that’s come out of my kitchen, even better than your favorite recipe I made last Christmas…”

The silence means Gladio has stiffened. Ignis can only imagine the knot in his stomach, the way his jaw is clenched with frustration and desire as Ignis works his face into expressions more sexual than appreciative of food—not that, Ignis would argue, they share too many differences.

“Yeah, so do I get to try some or what?” Gladio finally says, impatience rushing the gruffness in his voice.

Ignis hums and takes another bite directly from the loaf, irreverent. “I don’t know, love. I thought you’d be able to make that decision on your own, but if it’s too difficult—”

The cake is nearly to Ignis’s mouth again when Gladio wrenches it away. The fork clatters against his teeth, and Ignis knows it’s gone. “Well?” he asks, perturbance only partially feigned. “You could at least tell me if it’s any good after you stole my fork from under my nose.”

“Delicious,” Gladio answers. “As usual. So much for my punishment, huh?”

Ignis isn’t sure why—perhaps it’s the sangria, or maybe Gladio has just pulled him too far into this little game of theirs, but the challenge actually riles him to the point that he feels a fire in his belly. Deliberately, he crawls over to Gladio until his straddling his fiancé’s lap. His hand finds the fork and reclaims it, tossing it somewhere behind them with little regard for tact.

With both hands, he tugs gently at Gladio’s shirt collar and pulls him up, closer to Ignis’s lips—as if for a kiss.

Instead, Ignis whispers hotly against Gladio’s mouth, “Evidently, you weren’t listening, Gladiolus.” Each of his words is crisp and pointed. “I told you clearly that, if you chose to enjoy your dessert as you’ve just done, there would be an entirely different punishment awaiting you.”

Gladio straightens his neck to land a kiss beneath Ignis’s chin, but it’s not well-received.

“Don’t think you can simply _kiss _your way out of this, Gladiolus. You know that I’m not one to take punishments lightly.” He does his best to still his expression, to assume the mode typically reserved for a scene, but he _knows _that the muscles at the corners of his lips are twitching and that Gladio is only going to exploit him further because of it.

“Sure, Iggy.”

That bloody smooth smugness is what has Ignis weak in the knees. This time, when his fingers tighten in the fabric of Gladio’s tank top, he _does _yank him up into a kiss. It’s sloppy, and their teeth clash until they comfortably find an open-mouthed rhythm that’s slick and passionate and tastes like sangria.

Ignis feels the tap against his thigh moments before Gladio holds him by the waist and flips them over on the blanket. Somewhere, something probably spills, and that knowledge only has Ignis working more insistently against Gladio’s lips and reaching beneath his shirt fabric only to drag blunt nails down the impressive length of Gladio’s back.

“Is _this _what you really wanted,” Ignis asks, breathless, “When you begged for a week to take me out to the meadow?” Gladio only grunts into Ignis’s mouth, but Ignis grabs roughly onto a chin littered with stubble and tugs him away. “You only wanted an outdoors tryst? A rough _fuck _away from the Citadel?”

It’s rare that Ignis uses such profanity, and he’s happy to know that the filthiness of his intentions lands with all the impact he wants it to, as a result.

“God _damn_, Iggy.” Still, Gladio won’t answer him, responding with a string of wet, open-mouthed kisses along Ignis’s neck that tell a story of their own.

Gladio may be on top of him now, a knee pressed against Ignis’s groin and spreading his thighs apart, but Ignis will be damned if he allows Gladio control this easily. He keeps up the game, arching his back into Gladio’s touches and rewarding Gladio with little mewls of appreciation whenever he nips at a particularly sensitive spot besides his ear or beneath his collarbone.

“Gladio,” he breathes. “Oh, _Gladio_.”

Ignis feels the tension in Gladio’s body and the way that their movements become a staccato rather than something slow and fluid. With the same quickness he might demonstrate on the battlefield, Ignis maneuvers his own legs around Gladio’s and has them flipped again in less than a moment.

“This is what happens when you let your guard down, my darling.” With that, Ignis slides down every inch of Gladio’s body and drowns each inch with adoration. He’s rewarded with a broad hand and thick fingers against his scalp, clenching and unclenching his carefully styled hair into a disaster Ignis would rather not imagine at the moment.

He stops just above Gladio’s waist and palms firmly against the erection straining at the front of Gladio’s jeans.

“I might say,” Ignis ventures, “That this is inappropriate behavior for a picnic. Have some _decorum_, won’t you?”

Ignis all but giggles against Gladio’s thigh as he drags his bottom lip along the denim and plays idly with the belt buckle that pushes against the tip of his nose.

“_Fuck_, Ignis. Just—yeah. Yeah, come on, baby.”

Deft fingers work at the buckle, at everything else, until Ignis frees the tip of Gladio’s (already leaking) cock so that it stands just above the elastic band of his underwear.

Ignis takes his time swirling his touch around the single drop of dewy precum at the tip with only thumb and forefinger, smearing it across Gladio’s head and teasing gently at the foreskin that sits tight around the thickest part of Gladio’s tip.

With a grace and gentleness that comes only from practice, Ignis leans just against Gladio’s cock and breathes along its length. Not once does his mouth touch Gladio’s cock—Ignis maintains contact with only two of his fingers until he, for only a moment, dips the tip of his tongue into Gladio’s slit.

Then, Ignis regains his posture, crossing his legs and holding his own chin, feigning some sort of deep thought.

“You know, I daresay I remember a number of wildflowers growing nearby.” He delights in the expression he’s imagining—Gladio’s flushed cheeks and parted lips quivering with need and disbelief. “Do you think any survived, after all this time?” His heart racing with the devilish mischief, Ignis continues the one-sided conversation as if nothing is out of the ordinary, as if they’ve just packed away their lunch and Gladio’s thick cock is entirely confined within a pair of underwear and trousers.

The fact that absolutely _none _of these things are the case has Ignis just _barely _able to keep his composure—is there anything more delightful than this kind of punishment?

Ignis thinks not.

“If you’ll help me clean up,” he continues as he scans the blanket for jars and plates, “Perhaps we can search together? It’d be wonderful to have something for Lunafreya and Iris—sometimes I think they may be the only ones truly keeping our wedding together.”

The jangle of a belt buckle and a quick, rough _zip _drown out the sound of Gladio’s ragged breaths. Ignis just manages to conceal his pleasure, and he wonders briefly if he may be a sadist.

“Yeah,” Gladio breathes, and _there’s _the sound of defeat that Ignis has been searching for. He hears the crack in Gladio’s voice, the exact moment that he realizes his punishment.

“Bring along the cake,” Ignis invites cheerfully as he rises to his feet. “You _did _choose it over the best performance my mouth has given in ages, so you may as well enjoy it.”

Gladio’s silence speaks volumes, and Ignis grins. 

**Author's Note:**

> Leave some kudos, a comment, or even a [Twitter](https://twitter.com/raptor_redeem) mention if you enjoyed this fic, and keep an eye out for more! Thanks for reading!


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